


Certain Truths

by sleepsintheimpala



Series: Caetera Desunt (The Rest Is Missing) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cop AU, Multi, No Major Character Death, So Bear With me, but it's been planned out, currently being edited before I pick it up again, first fanfic, tags may still change a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepsintheimpala/pseuds/sleepsintheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rookie cop Castiel Novak joins precinct 66 with a clear-cut, black and white mission and an annoyingly intrusive kink. Detective Dean Winchester is forced to return to precinct 66 to finish a morally ambiguous mission and finds he has a soft spot for socially inept rookies. But as the city is swamped by a new drug with devastating side effects, secret agendas and personal vendettas may not only prove insurmountable obstacles in forming new relationships, but also destroy seemingly unbreakable ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guns & Logic

In the end the logical choice had been the Smith and Wesson 5946. Loaded, it is 220 grams heavier than the Glock 19 he started training with and together with a slightly superior grip on handle, the Smith and Wesson’s added weight had improved his accuracy at the firing range by 4.97%. The SIG Sauer had never been an option for obvious reasons and damn his family for that one, because all things considered it is probably the superior weapon. If he is scrupulously honest with himself, though, the second most important reason for the Smith and Wesson is sitting three floors down in a filing cabinet Castiel is not supposed to know about and has little to do with aptitude tests. Most of the officers who police district 66, better  known as the Pit, carry this firearm and anything Castiel can do to accelerate the process from rookie to trusted partner he will do, but really, it’s the case filed away under  number DN20071015/2432 that had made it the logical choice.

Captain Robert Singer, who had been the guest instructor to introduce him to the 5946 and who is currently bellowing at full volume into the squad room, had been the third reason. Castiel tilts his head as he contemplates his new superior. Singer is no-nonsense, volatile and rough and while Cas played him like a violin to get assigned to the Pit, his new boss is also highly intelligent and street-smart. Case and point, his current welcoming-the-new-officers tirade

“---one damn thing. I don’t give a sweet fuck-all how well you princesses did at the Academy. I certainly don’t give a crap about your score shooting at a paper target or how quickly you can run a mile and a half. You idjits might think you know the job inside out, that you understand the life, but out in the real world when you’re huntin’, it don’t mean a goddamn thing. There is simply no training for it except doing it. So: serve, protect, and for god’s sake, don’t screw the pooch by not listening to your Training Officers.

“Williams, Ruby. You’re training officer for today is officer McClellan. ”

As Singer starts to assign officers for the day, Castiel’s excitement grows and he’s filled with an almost divine sense of purpose. Not that he is religious anymore, again compliments of his family, but today, for all intents and purposes, he starts his new life as a law enforcement officer, and though he will still be considered a rookie for the next couple of months and he’ll be continuing his training with various TOs, he is ready to serve City Hall and serve it well. He has meticulously studied all the codes  - _10-22 Disregard, 10-31 Crime in progress, 10-95 Prisoner/subject in custody-_  he graduated with honors from the Academy, and received a handshake and a pat on the back from commissioner Michael Godchild himself who told him he and his generation of law enforcement officers were going to raise the NAPD from PR- perdition.

“Novak, Castiel. You’re with officer Winchester today, son.” Singer bellows out his list and Castiel can’t quite read the expression on the Captain’s face when he meets his eyes. Volatile and intelligent. Cas suppresses a fleeting moment of panic.

“And Fawkes, Uriel. You’ll be with sergeant Asgard today. Well, watcha morons waiting for, an invite to the prom? Lets go huntin’.”

A hand clasps his shoulder and when he looks up he is met by a pair of friendly eyes and an encouraging smile that could lull the casual observer into a misplaced sense of looking at a puppy when, as Castiel knows all to well, really they are looking at a pitbull. Sam Winchester has a knowledge of the law to match the D.A.’s, possesses a relentless logic, and while the rumors of psychic abilities in the interview room are clearly exaggerated, reports show the younger Winchester is a skilled interrogator indeed. Above all, he does not give up once he takes on a case. Other rumors claim Criminal Intelligence is looking to procure his employment. He is exactly the TO Castiel wants.

“Castiel Novak?”

“Yessir, Officer Winchester. I’m Castiel Novak,” he says and it comes out much more awkward than he intends, because knowing someone is 6’4” is decidedly different from experiencing said length towering over you when you’re still sitting dwon, and when nervous,  Castiel is known to be less than smoothe.

He, therefore, doesn’t really surprise himself when he says, ”I studied all your cases at the Academy. The ruby heist, when you were chasing Lilith White. You were like a man possessed in getting her. And I ---”

He blinks up helplessly at Sam Winchester as he sees the man’s face shift, because of all the turns of phrase and all the cases he could have chosen to compliment the man with, he choses the one most likely to set him off him. Yes, Castiel thinks, his suaveness deploys with unerring accuracy towards the social ineptitude mark. It puts his weapon’s practice to shame.

There’s an awkward beat, but then Sam Winchester smiles widely, and apparently takes pity on his trainee. “I’m honored to hear you used me for case studies. Please, call me Sam.”

“Yes, sir, uh, Sam,” Castiel replies, surprised at the informality and quickly gets up.

Appraising eyes sweep over him and Castiel can almost feel that while not quite found wanting, he will have to work hard to earn this man’s approval. It contrasts sharply with his freely given kindness. Castiel files that titbit of knowledge away for future reference.

“Okay, Castiel. Go grab your bag and meet me in the parking lot.”

“Yes, sir.” Castiel replies automatically. He all but runs back to his locker, _focus, Castiel, you can do this._ When he opens the door to the car park out back, and steps out as collectedly as he can, Sam Winchester is not there yet. Good. He breathes in deeply and remembers his lessons with Naomi. He can do this.

“He give you the speech yet?” a deep southern drawl comes from behind him.

Castiel spins around and looks at an unkempt beard, aviator glasses and a captain’s hat. It is an unseemly combination and Castiel is instantly disenchanted with the unknown man’s sanguivoros  smile. “Excuse me?”

“Sam. He give you the Family Speech yet?”

“No, sir, he hasn’t,” Cas forces politely, because sanguisuge or not, this man is most likely a superior officer and some decorum is required.

 A repulsive grin appears. “Don’t do it nearly as well as Bobby or Dean, but that don’t mean it ain’t the truth. You make sure to ask him for it, rook, because---

Hi Sam,” he finishes smoothly, apparently uncaring of what Sam may have heard.

“Leave him be, LaFitte.” His TO is all wariness with a hint of anger simmering underneath. Castiel is not good at reading social situations, so the dislike must be intense for him to recognize it immediately. Apparently, the friendliness _he_ received is not a given.

“Just giving this crazy aunt a head’s up, Sam, “ LaFitte says. “Dean’s sabbatical is coming to an end soon and someone’s gotta make sure he’s got proper rooks to work with when he gets back.”

“Dean’s sabbatical,” Sam flares, “Dean’s _sabbatical_? Really, Lafitte? I don’t know if this is DEA humor or just you being an asshole, but if Dean so much as—”

“Calm down, Sammy. Dean’s got this. He’ll be back without needing so much as a band-aid.  Brother’s got skills beyond even what we dreamed of. If anyone needs to worry, it’s those creatures he’s huntin’.”

Instantly, the friendly giant Castiel met barely 5 minutes ago transforms into pure, black-eyed anger. The shift is startling. “Dean is the only one who gets to call me that, _Benny._ ” Sam spits out the name like a curse. “And don’t think for a second I am fooled by this brother-business. If you were a “brother”, you would have never let him do this. You read the file. You know it’s not the physical wounds I worry about with Dean.”

The DEA agent’s eyes drop guiltily to the ground at that and all communication about the eldest Winchester brother ceases. With an “Alright, lets get going, Novak,” Winchester practically drags him to the car. Maybe it is Sam’s abrupt change of mood or maybe Castiel is finally realizing that for all the planning that has gone into this, he is about to set out on his first day out on the streets. He shifts awkwardly and a familiar panic creeps up on him. A panic that whispers everyone will see right through him and expose him. A panic that chides him for letting his fellow officers down before he has even started. Hell he doesn’t even know where to –--

“Bag goes in the back, Novak. Relax. I’m not angry with _you_.”

Castiel stares. Maybe psychic is not an entirely inaccurate moniker for Sam Winchester after all. And apparently they’re back to surnames. All things considered that is probably for the best. As he closes the trunk with a bit too much force, Castiel sees Ruby and Uriel get into their respective cars. Both look unflappable. Professional. He straightens himself and by the time he clicks in his seatbelt and they pull out onto the streets he has found his focus again.

Clearly still out of sorts from his altercation with Lafitte, Sam grumbles, “You know, people can spot rookies as sure as they can a trench coat at a playground, Novak. You’re all crisp and cocky and concerned, but lemme tell you, you don’t know.  We live in an alternate universe when we’re in uniform.  I know we’re supposed to be all about protecting and serving. And we are. But this here, “ he waves his hand to indicate their car, “this here, this is where we become work family. And make no mistake.  As much as we want to be aunty Masie’s son or little Timmy’s big brother, we can’t be. We’ve lost too many to that. So, when you’re on the job, we got each other’s back and we never, ever leave a brother or sister behind. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel nods, and grudgingly acknowledges to himself that LaFitte was right; it’s not a bad speech.

“Good. So, as you’re family now, I’m going to point out that your tie is on backwards.” There’s a small chuckle followed by, ”How do you even put on a clip-on tie backwards?”

Castiel is sure he will never be more grateful for dispatch to come through when it does right then so he can avoid Sam’s smirk. Talk about rookie mistakes.

“All units, we have a possible 273D at 101 Wilshire.”

“Sam, that’s really close by,” Castiel observes as he reclips his tie, carefully keeping his face impassive.  

“No,” Sam replies, “we’re not taking a domestic as your first call. We’re gonna let Garth take that and you and I are gonna have coffee and continue our talk. ”

“66-83 are you 98 yet?”

Winchester sighs and Castiel grins, cause that’s definitely their call sign and they are definitely available and Castiel cannot wait to commence with his duties.

“Go ahead, call it in.”

He grabs the radio and presses the transmit button. “Dispatch, this is –“

“The other button, Castiel. And it’s not a telephone call. Just give them the codes,” Sam says, not unkindly.

Castiel flinches, but quickly recovers, “ 66-83. 10-4.”

“Happy?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but is relieved to see that the corner of Sam Winchester’s mouth is still twitched up in an amused smile. The silence in the car that follows is only interrupted by Castiel’s rearranging of his attire and the siren outside. It lasts till their destination, but it’s a companiable one.

101 Willshire, Castiel imagines when they arrive on the scene, does a good impersonation of hell. Set back a little from the main streets, the very walls of the apartment block breathe sadness and despair, and the various sigils on the walls mark it gang territory. Castiel doesn’t often think it, but he suspects that this just might be worse place to grow up than his own home.

“Alright, Castiel. Follow my lead.”

As soon as they are out of the car, a perturbed looking woman accosts them.

“Where ya’ll been? I called like, fifteen minutes ago,” she yells over her baby’s crying. Castiel has to resist the impulse to grab the crying baby she has tucked against her to rock it to sleep. Eight years of raising your nephew will do that. He softly presses two fingers against the forehead instead, the way he used to with Alfie and the baby quietens somewhat. The woman frowns, but her face softens a bit.

“Yes, ma’am,” Winchester responds, “What seems to be the problem?”

The woman huffs, “Like I said, that damn television has been on all day. Full volume and I can’t get this little one to sleep cause of it.”

“Anything good showing?” Castiel asks before he can stop himself. Bull's eye again, he sighs internally

“You stupid?” All the credit he has just earned with the baby lost. She turns to Sam. “Is he stupid?”

Sam shoots him a warning look and says, “No, ma’am just a rookie.”

“It shows,” she spits, angry again. “Look I don’t really care. Just make sure it gets turned right the hell off, alright. They’re in apartment 7.”

“We’ll have a look, ma’am,” Sam continues, “but I can’t guarant---“

Shots crack through the air and in an instant Sam has his gun out.

“Okay, Novak. Take your weapon, unlock it, and cover me,” his voice is calm and reassuring, “and don’t shoot me in the back by accident.”

They hasten into the building and make their way up two flights of stairs. For two people who met barely half an hour ago they move uncannily in sync, their guns covering the entire staircase, never pointing in the same direction. The Smith and Wesson feels too heavy, too cumbersome now that it is in action, though, and Castiel curses himself. The detached part of his brain that manages to work around the adrenaline that makes him feel like he is flying down the hallway towards number 7 helpfully provides an image of the primary reason he chose this gun.

Stupidly, stupidly, stupidly inappropriate that. Must be Winchester proximity.

“Stay behind me, Cas. Cover the left, I cover the right. Whatever happens next, do not drop your weapon.”

Without any more ceremony Castiel finds himself conducting his first police raid. When he looks back at it several hours later, he realizes that Sam had tried to stop him approximately 10 seconds after kicking in the door of apartment 7 and discovering three fully grown men, a table full of cut heroin and one dead body. It is only afterwards, as he gets a roasting of apocalyptic proportions, that he realizes it would have also been more prudent not to pursue an armed smack dealer up the stairs single-handedly while dodging bullets, because he runs right into the surveillance room that is set directly above the room he had just come from _and just how was he supposed to know that?_ That, however, will be then.

Right now, the bullets flying in his general direction are all he can focus on as he bursts into a room behind the suspect he is chasing. He hears some shouting but it is too late. He trips over a tangle of wires and his momentum catapults him towards the shooter and together they careen right out the window in an almighty swan dive.

Midflight, Castiel experiences an odd sense of peaceful weightlessness. Time stretches into eons and for a brief moment he flies.

Then he hits the garbage pile with an graceless whump that disorients him completely, but he is still holding his Smith and Wesson and for the moment that is all that is important. Even if he is just blindly pointing it into the distance. He doesn’t know quite he long he stays that way until a low growl shocks him back into reality.

“Get that gun on safety, you assclown!”

Castiel swerves in the direction of the voice and is immediately met by more cursing.

“Jesus Christ! You wanna add shooting a detective to fucking up the city’s largest drug bust ever? Sammy, what the hell were you thinking letting this rook storm after a suspect like that?”

Castiel opens his mouth to defend himself against the figure looming over him, because he may be on his back swimming in garbage, but he deserves to be shown a little respect for falling three stories and still being a semi-functioning human.

However, only a small whimper passes his lips when the figure comes into proper focus. Because from _this_ vantage point, seeing a gun being thrust angrily into _that_ thigh holster… Yeah, if Castiel is truly honest with himself, knowing his principal reason for choosing the Smith and Wesson 5946 is not quite the same as when said reason hovers mere inches from your face, wrapped tightly around a denim-clad leg and making Dean Winchester’s jeans bulge in all the right places. Some choices have nothing to do with logic at all.

 

 

 


	2. Hinges & Transference

_For a piece of metal_ , _it sure as shit dents easily_.

It’s a fleeting thought, which barely registers. The volume of his internal monologue is cranked up to max and the _goddamn fucking Sam with his goddamn fucking rookie with his goddamn fucking rookie bullshit fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ drowns out any logical thought. As if anything could be heard above the steady rhythm of his kicking the living shit out of a locker.

“Eight months!” he yells as the door yields and one of the hinges comes flying off and quite frankly if anyone is stupid enough to still be in the locker room with him they deserve to get smacked in the face by metal.

“Eight. Fucking. Months.”

If Dean iss totally honest with himself, he hadn’t really expected to succeed with this task force that, for unfathomable reasons, he had been put in charge of in the first place. From the moment he opened the folder marked “SWORD” and started planning this operation, he’d waited for the other shoe to drop. As he recruited undercover agents, talked to Charlie about surveillance, and liaised with LaFitte at the DEA, he’d constantly worked with the understanding that at some point he would fuck up and thanks for trying on the big boy pants, but never come to the grown-up table again, Detective Winchester. Never along the line had he even considered that the shoe that would actually drop – ‘cause _of course_ it had fucking dropped— would be a rookie boot. Particularly now, because, fuck him sideways, his plan had turned out to be solid and somewhere mid-July, between “LaFitte” becoming “Benny” and Bobby letting him run a progress meeting, Dean had actually started to believe his plan had been both tactically and strategically approaching awesome. Made him believe that—

And then Sam signs up for take your civvy to work day and it gets shot to hell.

“FUCK!”

The image of John Winchester’s frowning, disapproving face flashes through his head. He’s failed again and he knows it. Dean flings his badge across the room in impotent anger… straight into Jo’s face.

“For Christ’s sake, Dean!”

“Fuck off, Jo,” he growls, every particle of his frustration and failure crashing through his body with such ferocity his shoulders are heaving as he breathes. He needs to punch someone, rip someone a new one, ‘cause he’s here and out there are roughly fifteen people who are now in danger because he got made _by a fucking rookie_. He should be out there, finding them - particularly finding Lisa and Ben - and getting them to safe houses, hell, getting them out of state. Instead he’s been confined at the precinct like a spare dick at a wedding while others clean up his mess and the last thing he needs is Jo giving him shit for being pissed about it.

Surprisingly Jo says nothing beyond her initial curse, which was probably more her being startled than her being upset anyway. Her non-reaction is unusual enough for his anger to momentarily falter and she catches his eyes. Whatever she reads in them is apparently worrying, because within moments she is right up in his personal space, two hands cupping his face. It is an unexpected, comforting and soothing touch and his anger flees him all together. Jo has always had this effect on the more volatile parts of his temperament. Perhaps it is because they are so very similar that she is the one who can reach him in his anger. Not for the first time Dean chides himself for not appreciating her enough. Sometimes he thinks they should marry despite a decided lack of romantic interest; they’d probably make each other happier than most married people supposedly in love would.

“Have you heard from her yet?” Jo asks softly.

Dean lets out a shuddering sigh, “No, Benny’s getting both of them.”

Jo brushes a supportive thumb over his jaw while at the same time frowning in severe displeasure. _She is so like Ellen sometimes_ and Dean smiles a little to himself at the thought, because he’s pretty sure both Harvelles would knee him in the groin if he ever voiced that opinion.

“Want me to help kick in some more lockers while we wait? “ Jo asks, responding to the smile.

He snorts despite himself. “Maybe.”

“Dean, they’re not like the noticeboard. That little squealer spills the beans just looking at it. Lockers are a bunch of reticent fuckers, course you need back-up.”

“Lame, Jo, lame.”

She smiles and lets go of him. “Have you talked to Sam yet?”

“No,” he growls, temper back up.

“Dean, it’s not his fault.”

“Jo, goddammit, I know that,” he sighs, “I should have had it put in the briefing the Lawrence apartments were out of bounds. That’s on me.”

“Dean, that’s not—“

Whatever she means to say is interrupted by Dean’s phone belting out _Born on the Bayou_.

“Benny?” The name is a desperate question in his voice.

“Whoa there, brother, take a breath,” Benny says quietly, “and listen.”

That can’t be good.

“What?” Dean manages, “What’s wrong.”

Jo’s arm snakes around his shoulder, but he shakes her off. Whatever is going on will require him not to loose his shit and a gesture like that, yeah, he’ll loose his shit.

“Dean, I’ve got Lisa right here with me, but the p'tit boug…he’s gone.”

***

If there is such a thing as a constant in Dean Winchester’s life –apart from the soothing feeling of Baby’s leather underneath him and the open road in front of him- it is that he is there for his family. Granted, his family tends to die and/or disappear on him on an all too regular basis, the point is _he_ is there for _them_. Fuck Dr. Cartwright and her psych evaluations that label him codependent and pointedly don’t say anything about how he approaches the job. His “transference”, or whatever, is what made him detective at 29. All he has to do when he tackles a case is imagine it’s Sammy who has od-ed, or Jo who has been raped, or Ellen who has been robbed at gunpoint, and he’ll sink his teeth into it, and god help the poor son of a bitch he’s chasing. If that makes him drink a little bit extra, fuck a little too much, and eat like a college student, well, he isn’t going to give that too much thought, because in the end he does more good than bad.

It’s also why he near-instantly liked Lisa Braeden. Caught up in the fall-out of her one percenter douche of a Hell’s Angels-ex’turf war, Dean had taken one look at her, seen Jo caught in a bad relationship and that had been it. Lisa was tough, kicked ass and most importantly for him, from a cop perspective, was sick of criminal activities connected to motorcycle groups. She had agreed to become his confidential informant and that was it; he had been smitten.

Well, that and her bendiness.

Till the day he retires, Dean will claim he was doing yoga that weekend, because doing the “downward facing dog” with a CI is a big nono that would have IA ploughing through all his cases in the non-sexy way. He hasn’t touched her since, barring a few hugs and snuggles, which, coincidentally, he will deny till the day he dies. He only visits her and Ben every other week or so, whenever work allows him an evening off. He knows how to keep a healthy distance. To be honest, he hasn’t really felt the inclination to sleep with her since their weird non-regulation, non-relationship started. He doesn’t really know what to do with that either, but when he bottomlines it, Lisa is a babe who feeds Dean beer and home-cooked food and that ranks high on Dean’s shit-that-is-awesome list.

More importantly, though, she’s a fantastic mom, who is raising the most awesome little dude and maybe if he is totally honest with himself, the idea of Lisa and Ben fulfills just about every dream of domesticity Dean secretly entertains. Lise is a great mom and what more could he want out of a partner?

So, as Baby tears through rush hour traffic, flashing red on her roof with a worried-looking Sam riding shotgun and a poker-faced rookie in the back, Dean cannot, will not believe that on a day like today Lisa would have left Ben on his own. Especially not to go get high on demon dope, the very thing that caused her to start helping him in the first place. Lisa does not pull crap like this…

“What did LaFitte say, exactly?” Sam ventures carefully, trying to break the silence.

Dean rolls his eyes, but gives the same answer he has given twice already, because he is the asshole that dragged Sam and his blue-eyed rook with him and despite the fact they were the catalysts in all of this, they deserve an explanation. “He said that he found Lisa all doped up. And that Ben’s missing.”

“I still can’t… Doped up? Lisa?” And yeah, maybe Dean doesn’t deserve his little brother because he’s pretty sure no one else would have said those words with such incredulity. Sam knows about him and Lisa and Ben. Knows the dynamic and simply can’t believe Lisa would fuck up this badly because Dean has told him it’s impossible.

“That’s what he said. Said she had all the signs of long-term use. Pupils completely blown into a black mess. Distorted voice. Limbs at odd angles. Basically doing a full Linda Blair.”

“And Ben?”

“Not at the house. All Benny’s found is a trail of overturned furniture and muddy footsteps leading up to his bedroom. Mud tracks on the windowsill as well.”

“So, he may have gotten out? Jumped out the window, I mean.”

“Look out, asshole!” Dean screams as he barely avoids a taxi that swerves into his lane. When did it become okay to ignore fucking sirens and put Baby at risk?

“Yeah. It is what I taught him. Never let yourself be taken to a secondary spot. Always worse. If he had the chance, he’ll have jumped and is hiding.”

“Unless he’s been taken. Then what course of action do you propose?”

Seriously? This is how sex hair decides to join the conversation?

“Fuck you is what I propose then, dickbag.”

“Dean!” Sam snaps. “Castiel’s got a good point. What do we do if Ben has been taken?”

“Seriously, Sam? We’re the fucking police. What the hell do you think we’re gonna do? We will hunt down the sons of bitches and get him back.”

“But—“

“Castiel,” Sam’s voice is quiet, but apparently he gets his message across and whatever shit was about to come out of the rook’s mouth dies on his chapped lips. He is a little pissed the message is that Dean can’t be reasoned with right now and that the case-busting rook gets that. How long have he and Sammy known each other? Seven hours? _And why the fuck am I attaching all of these adjectives to the fucker’s appearance?_

_Wait what?_

Mercifully the ensuing silence lasts until they pull up into the familiar driveway that leads up to the smoke blue house with the white pillars. For once, Dean doesn’t have to carefully avoid _not_ thinking about how that color scheme exactly matches his childhood bedroom. Doesn’t have to not think about the flames that consumed it. Consumed his mother. But even now, knowing the clusterfuck he is going to find inside, he can’t help that fleeting thought of _family._ That thought that if there ever was going to be a place that he might call home, this would be it.

A home that has a broken front door like the Incredible Hulk stormed through it. The frame is cracked and it sways precariously on its one remaining hinge. The moment he steps onto the porch, it lets out a deep moan and crashes to the floor.

For the first time that day, Dean thinks absolutely nothing.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a big thank you to all of you who are reading/giving kudos to this. It puts a huge smile on my face.
> 
> For this chapter and part of the next one, I kinda wanted Dean and Cas to begin the way they do in canon. They instantly connect, but with a lot of preconceptions of who the other is/should be and with heaps of antagonism. As for Sam and Cas, well I love the idea of them being great friends so initially they are in a better place than Dean and Cas are. When it comes Dean and Lisa, I look at them the way Jensen described: Dean loves the idea of her. And Jo. Jo just rocks.
> 
> Beta-ed by the wonderful nicky36/nickelmd. (Seriously, check out her ficlets at nickelmd. They're awesome.) Any mistakes or stupid writing is me ignoring her advice.


	3. Friction Ridges & Chaos

Castiel harbors an unreasonable dislike for the word _dactyl_. Something about the way the letters are arranged grates against his sense of order, his sense of logic. Has done since Naomi took him to the museum of natural history when he was barely 8 years old. There he’d stood in awe of the winged dinosaur that hovered over him, godlike and unreachable.

_Pterodactyl, Castiel,_ Naomi had lectured, _from pteron: wing and dactyl: finger._

He had positioned himself so that the shadow of the beast’s wings spread out behind him. He still remembers that feeling of infinite possibility. That child-like feeling of being able to take those wings and stretch himself across space and time.

He suspects that had he been in any other life – an alternate universe if you will- he‘d be fine with the term. Were he a literature teacher, he’d have his students compose complicated odes to the Iliad. His classes would be filled with neatly arranged dactylic hexameters of stressed-unstressed-unstressed syllables flowing in beautiful emulation of the classics. Studying medicine, he suspects would have had his charts filled with the word: Mrs So-and-so’s recovery from dactylitus of the right hand progressing at a highly satisfactory rate.

Point is, in every other profession or setting, he’d have taken it and bent it to his will. He could have created order out of chaos. Yet here he stands, fingers slowly crumpling the plastic protection sheet of the fingerprinting kit he gave Sam with the word dactylogram mocking him in blood red print. As a police officer he knows that he’ll only encounter the word whenever the anarchy of violence leaves its sickening fingerprints on innocence.

What really bothers Castiel is the uncertainty of it. While a perpetrator may touch an object and transfer the natural oils and perspiration present between the friction ridges of his or her fingertips to produce a latent print, there is no guarantee it will solve the case. He’s read studies in which three different prints of the same finger were classified as “similar but different.” As identifying marks, fingerprints have a near-mythical reputation in the eyes of the general public that just doesn’t match reality. The remnants of touch, sadly, are erratic and fleeting, no matter how violently red its traces may be.

He blinks at that last thought. It stirs a barely recognized memory, something like dream that disappears as soon as he tries to chase it.

“Castiel? You okay?”

Sam’s eyes flicker across his face and follow his gaze to where Castiel has most definitely not been staring at Dean Winchester’s hands touching the surface of the Braeden family kitchen table for the past few minutes. At the curve of his arm. At the strained fabric of his suit jacket that does everything to highlight the strength in his biceps. How he would love to grab the man there and pull him in. How he hates these feelings taking control of him.

_Dammit_. _He is so far from okay._

“Of course, Sam,” he says instead.

“Then why do I get the feeling you are about to attack my brother?”

“I- I…. no,’ Castiel flusters, but can’t quite manage to take his eyes away from the scene.

“We need to canvas the neighbors,” Sam says, dropping the topic, but his voice holds that same note of protectiveness, of warning he had with LaFitte earlier. Castiel wonders why he feels surprised. He knows this man. Hell, he could write a dissertation on Sam Winchester’s character. However, Castiel has to admit that comparing the case-file Winchesters he spent months studying to their actual, flesh-and-blood selves, he struggles. With Sam, he is three for three right now. The protective streak has come across loud and clear as has the intelligence and kindness. But in his Venn diagram of Dean the intersection is frighteningly empty. The chaos this has created inside him is unacceptable. The past few months have created a clear persona in Castiel’s mind as to who Dean Winchester is. Protective. Fierce. Lethal. Righteous. For the past two hours, however, the words he has been using to describe Dean to himself have been oscillating between _thigh-holstered perfection_ and _overly-tactile assbutt_.

The man touches everything and not just with his hands. It’s like the entirety of Dean Winchester interacts with his surroundings in a chaotic, physical way. No object is safe and it is infuriating. Take Lisa Braeden for example. She is incoherent, slumped on a chair, and utterly indifferent to the fact that her son has disappeared. She should be shunned by compassion, yet Dean . It seems spectacularly unfair that the swearing, glaring, derisive version of Dean he’s had to contend with is nowhere to be seen when dealing with this drug-addled, neglectful mother.

Worse, everything in Dean Winchester’s behavior indicates affection and worry. He is trying to coax information out of her through soft vocal caresses. The damn woman doesn’t even shiver, doesn’t notice how Dean’s hand are restraining themselves from reaching out to her. If Castiel had that voice directed at him in that manner, vibrating over his skin, well… he’s not quite sure anymore _how_ he’d react, but he’d react, dammit.

“Officer Novak!”

Sam’s voice smashes into him. This is why he doesn’t like to dwell on touch of any kind. It leads to chaos and distraction. He resolutely shuts out any thoughts of Dean and turns towards his superior.

“Yessir. Where do you need me to go?”

“Take the uneven numbers between the two intersections. Ask anyone if they have seen anything unusual over the past few days. Strangers, neighbors not sticking to routines, etc. “

“Consider it done.”

The next hour and a half Castiel learns some interesting facts about himself. For one, he really doesn’t like walking from door to door. Surely there has to be a more effective way of moving through the slew of reluctant neighbors. And that’s another thing. He finds he’s utterly discomfited talking to potential witnesses. He can’t keep focus. It gets particularly bad with the woman at 117, who ends up bursting into tears when he interrupts her with a pat on the shoulder consoling her about her dad having run off.

The only other slightly interesting note is that of a blond woman who walked passed this morning, who had been noticed by several people in the area.

“She looked like an amazon,” the man at 113 had said. “Carried herself like a warrior, like Diane herself. All that was missing was a bow and arrow.”

“She was like Katniss!” the teenage girl at 97 enthused. “Or what Katniss would look like in 30 years. Same kinda walk.”

Cas doesn’t understand the last reference to, but he’d written it down dutifully.

When he eventually returns to the Braeden house most of the forensic team has disappeared as have most of the detectives. He finds Dean sitting alone in the living room.

“Sam’s bringing Lisa to the station, ” Dean says by way of greeting, “No-one else I trust with her. He asked me to give you a ride back.”

“What about everyone else?”

“It’s out of our hands.” Dean’s barely suppressed anger leaks into his voice. “Apparently, the department is too emotionally involved.”

“The entire department?”

“Yeah, well, Ben and Lisa have been to a few Sunday barbecues over the years. So, 17 is taking over.”

Dean rubs his face in his hands and sighs.

“What about your canvasing? Find anything?”

“I interviewed about 15 people and nothing, sir, I’m sorry.”

“So, excellent work with the witnesses then.”

Castiel bristles. “It _is_ excellent work, sir.”

“Sure, the information you didn’t manage to get is gonna lead straight to my…straight to Ben. Top notch investigative work. You’re off to a great start there, Cas. Maybe tomorrow I can find you a murder investigation to fuck up. Why not go for the hattrick?”

“I –,” Cas starts to say, but something in Dean’s face changes. Fear, admiration, love and anger war with each other before his expression becomes unreadable as he looks just past Castiel’s shoulder. Before he can turn around to see what caught his attention, Castiel is brushed aside by a storm of leather and stale alcohol in the form of a man who engulfs Dean in a bear hug with lots of slapping on his back.

“Hey, dad,” Dean says and his face actually lights up.

“Dean. You good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was a big cock up with the SWORD case, son.”

And like that the expression is gone and Dean’s face shuts down.

“Yes, sir.” His voice is neutral, but something tells Castiel that neutral on Dean is equal to everyone else’s hurt.

“At least you can keep a closer eye on Sammy again. Should never have gone off in the first place, Dean. Since when has not sticking to my plan ever worked for you? Seriously, what was your plan in playing cowboys and indians with the DEA?” John Winchester’s voice takes on a patronizing tone that Castiel knows all too well from Naomi.

“Dean wasn’t playing at anything, sir. This was my fault.”

There is a moment of surprised silence. Almost detachedly, Castiel registers that he is the source of it. John lets go of Dean and turns around to face him.

“Who the hell are you and why do I care?” John growls.

Castiel opens his mouth to reply, but a barely perceptible shake of Dean’s head stops him. For a moment Dean doesn’t say anything, but just stares at Castiel, expression unreadable again, but for the first time since meeting the man, Castiel feels the weight of Dean’s presence focused solely on himself.

“New rookie,” Dean answers for him without taking his eyes off Castiel, “never mind him.”

Castiel’s temper flares, “I’m –“

Dean’s unexpected key toss cuts him off as Castiel catches them in a flurry. “Go wait in the car, rook, I’ll give you a ride back to the station.”

There’s another warning in the form of Dean’s voice that Castiel doesn’t understand, but the surprised look on John’s face makes him think twice about continuing the conversation. Damn, he finally meets John Winchester and he immediately turns the man against him. Fantastic. So, all he does is nod, turn on his heels and walk out the door. As he does he hears John’s voice, “Who the hell is he that you trust him with the Impala?”

“Never mind, dad,” Dean says, “Lemme fill you in on—“

The rest fades away as he steps outside. Thoughts rush through Castiels’ head a mile a minute. Events are out of his control right now; the chaos the violence of Ben’s disappearance left behind is still in charge and he feels as if he is about to be swept away. He’s nearing the end of his first shift and he feels lost. Not once has he even thought about his original mission since hitting the streets. He has been in survival mode. Trying to understand this new life he has been thrust in. He needs to regroup. He needs to be more prepared for tomorrow.

The Impala sits on the lawn like a rock in the swell of Castiel’s doubts. As he opens the door and slides onto the passenger seat an unexpected calm settles over him. For all his bullshit, John Winchester raised a fair point. You can’t work without a plan and Castiel needs a plan if he is going to help out commissioner Godchild. He needs the Winchesters, but so far he’s managed to anger every single one of them. If he is going to get Sam and Dean to say yes, he needs to stop being overwhelmed. Dean was always going to need a lot of work and now that Castiel has managed to anger his father, well....

It seems as though finally he’s learned something about Dean that matches his personal file. From the few moments he saw Dean and John interact, their relationship screams Father Complex fraught with a whole host of side issues. It makes him want to pitch John Winchester into the seventh circle of Hades. _How dare he make Dean’s eyes look that guarded. How dare he make him doubt himself and accept that criticism. God, if only I could give him a hug that doesn’t end in pain. I could show him that touch doesn’t have to be violent or painful. It—_

_Wait what?_

Before he can pursue the thought, the driver’s door is opened. Castiel quickly glances to the left and sees Dean slide into the car. They sit for a while. Neither one of them speaks, but as their eyes lock somehow it’s like the silence is a conversation in itself. Then Dean holds out his hand and Castiel gives him the keys.

They’re almost back at the station before Dean finally breaks the silence.

“Thanks, Cas. It was stupid, but thanks.”

“What?”

“You know. For saying it wasn’t my fault.”

Castiel turns in his seat to look at Dean.

“It is my fault, Dean. Not yours. I am the one who ignored Sam’s orders. I’m the one who rendered eight months of work useless. I’m the reason Ben is missing.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth gives a slight twitch.

“Alright, alright. No need to play guardian angel, Cas. I’m a grown-up, you know. I take responsibility for my actions.”

“Dean, that’s not what happened here.”

“Cas, shut up. My operation, my consequences, my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility, Dean. Not your fault it went wrong. There’s a difference.”

“Like I said, Cas, shut up.”

Castiel huffs and resolutely turns his head to look out the window and doesn’t move a muscle till they reach the station and Dean parks the Impala.

He unbuckles his seat-belt and moves to get out of the car without looking at Dean when his wrist is caught and he is yanked back into his seat. When he angrily turns to Dean he is surprised to find the man’s face mere inches from his own. Dean’s eyes flit across his face before they catch his eyes. Castiel could swear he sees the man swallow.

“Cas, it’s not that I don’t appreciate you coming to my defense. It’s just… My father…well it’s best to stay off his radar.”

Before he realizes what he does, Castiel carefully cups Dean’s face and softly strokes the stubble on Dean’s face. Green eyes widen in surprise, but Dean doesn’t pull back. If anything, he seems to lean into the touch. They breathe in each other's space for a while without moving. Then Dean sighs deeply and rests his forehead against Castiel’s.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I don’t find Ben.”

“You’ll find him, Dean. We’ll find him.”

A police siren roars to life and Cas is startled out of the intimacy of the moment. He snatches his hands from Dean’s face and sits back.

“I—I…” he stutters, because what the hell just happened. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Before Dean can respond Castiel yanks open the door, gets out and slams it shut again with more force than he intends.

The Impala roars to life again and pulls out of the police parking lot with screaming tires before Cas can turn around. When he does, Castiel swallows as he watches the taillights of the Impala disappear. He is too shocked at his own behavior to think about how he may have hurt Dean by his abrupt exit, that will come in the morning. With a vengeance.

Right now all he can think about is how his fingers tingle from the stubble they caressed. How part of the oxygen in his blood came from Dean’s lungs. How he touched.

The words _not a good word spoken nor brought to pass_ swim to the fore of his mind.

He sighs.

“Castiel! There you are. Finger print results are in.”

Sam Winchester presses an A4 sheet into his hands. “Lab results. Guess what. Prints are on file, but they’re restricted. You get anything from the neighbors?”

Cas shakes his head.

Sam sighs. “That was to be expected. Wanna join me and some others for a drink? LaFitte’s interrogating Lisa right now, but we probably won’t get anything out of her till morning.”

Castiel hesitates.

“Come one, Cas. You’ve a rough first day. The ride back with Dean can’t have been fun. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“It’s okay, Sam,” he decides.

“Great. Grab a shower and join us at The Roadhouse. You look like you need it.”

“Okay, Sam.”

When Cas reaches the locker room he carefully reads the information Sam gave him.

Results Dactylogram 11934: print match RESTRICTED – EYES ONLY

He crushes the paper into a ball and tosses it into the trashcan. Yeah, he truly dislikes the word and the uncertain chaos it brings.

The shower is bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a Rookie Blue AU, but quickly veered off into different territory, but some elements will still be there.  
> Beta'ed by the awesome nicky36/nickelmd. Any mistakes or awkward writing is me ignoring her advice.


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